Two Skulls
by Howlynn
Summary: John and Sherlock reunion with a terrible twist. No slash unless you squint. Tissue warning, hopeful end, mention of non-canon suicide attempt. Sometimes a return from the dead isn't enough to stop a fall.


**Two Skulls**

I** Disclaimer:** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of the author. The author is in no way associated with the owners, creators, or producers of any media franchise. No copyright infringement is intended.

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**_Sometimes coming back from the dead isn't enough to stop a plummet._**

Sherlock looked at his brother, his face full of confusion and betrayal. "How could you?"

Mycroft sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose trying to relieve his migraine. "You left me no choice. Perhaps if he'd been told?"

"You know I didn't dare."

"You're right. He would have tried to help. There was no right choice here. There never was. He's alive and he's comfortable. They treat him very well, I assure you." The voice was gentle but had a patronizing note to it.

"You should have stopped this."

"I did try. It wasn't something that just could have been headed off with a few words. He grieved for you. Not like a man who lost his best friend. The John you knew stopped existing. Nobody quite saw it at the time. He did try very hard if it is of any help? He fought this. At first. He just lost his battle. I'm so sorry." Mycroft put his hand on his brother's shoulder.

"I want to speak to him," Sherlock said with a rumbling whisper.

"Of course. Prepare yourself, brother. He will not know you. There is no magic kiss for our sleeping beauty. His intent was not a gesture. He meant to join you. Had I known how it would turn out in the end, I would have…"

Sherlock spun on his brother, eyes livid pools of grey. "What? Say it. He'd be better off dead?"

"Sentiment clouds your logic. Next you will demand that I allow you to take him home with you. You don't need two empty skulls to talk to. He requires full-time care. Visit the John Watson shell if you must, but do not burden yourself with a guilty gesture. He doesn't care anymore, Sherlock. This is the kindest thing."

Sherlock sat next to John. He was sure that when he said his name that something in John's eyes stirred. He brought him home to 221B a week later.

Sherlock was never wrong.

He couldn't be this time.

He would fix John, just like he had fixed him before.

He sat by the fire after the afternoon nurse left and before the night shift woman would arrive. This was the best time of day for Sherlock.

John sat placidly in his fresh jim-jams, having had his bath, and wearing a clean diaper and in the firelight of the darkened flat, Sherlock pretended. John looked and smelled like John. He had improved here. Sherlock had coaxed him into walking again if he guided him. He sometimes dressed him on pretty days and took him to the park. John seemed to like it outside and he needed the activity to keep his body from further atrophy.

Of course he'd hoped like a childish fool and the small progresses had seemed like mountains at first. He did know the effects of oxygen deprivation on the brain. He knew the prognosis. His heart could not accept it.

Anoxic Brain Injury caused by barbiturate poisoning

_persistent vegetative state_

John had not used the gun. For that, Sherlock was thankful.

Sherlock no longer took cases. He only had one now. His experiments revolved around researching how to help his John. He could not lose this battle. Technology was infinite and the new puzzle was finding the right combination to spark the activity in John's brain. To break through the darkness and bring some part of his friend home was his only goal.

Some doctors believe that if the persistent vegetative state in a patient with HAI continues for more than three months, there is virtually no chance of further recovery.

Sherlock thought some doctors were idiots. He didn't know medicine, but he knew puzzles and chemistry and he would figure out some way.

Mycroft disapproved.

"Basically Sherlock, you expect me to allow you a living corpse to experiment on?"

"What does it matter? Don't give me you moral outrage, Mycroft. You allow Baskerville to exist."

Mycroft's breath hitched and he was stunned by the implication. "But, Sherlock, he's still human. How can you even consider. We have no idea his awareness level. I can't allow it. That you would torture him, of all people. I don't know what to say to you."

"Say yes. Or wish me farewell." Sherlock met his gaze with steady threatening eyes.

"Please," Mycroft whispered, as close to begging as he would ever manage.

"Do you think I would ever cause him unnecessary pain?" Sherlock demanded.

Mycroft's face had said it all. 'Have you done otherwise thus far?'

The arrangement had not been without compromise. Physicians, caregivers and other meddlers had full access to John and could end Sherlock's trials if any of them deemed John to be in physical danger. There was little fruit for all Sherlock's labors after two years. But John could eat and walk again. He responded to simple commands. His eyes sometimes followed Sherlock around the room.

In the evening, Sherlock would sit John in his old chair and Sherlock would read to him, play his violin or sometimes just talk. In the flickering gold light of the fire, Sherlock could imagine that John and he were just enjoying a quiet evening exactly like before.

Had Sherlock considered overdosing John on heroin and when his heart stopped, following him? He thought of it every day. He had exquisitely pure supplies just in case any of the meddlers decided to take his John away.

It had been five years since John and Sherlock had spoken on the phone.

They had both aged at least ten years. Sherlock wondered what John would think of him if he came back. Sherlock prepared the needle. John never looked at him.

Sherlock rubbed the alcohol swab on his friends forearm. John pulled away.

"I know. You don't like this much. I don't know what else to do. This is the last. I promise," Sherlock said with tears welling in his eyes. "I have tried everything, John. I seem to have failed you again."

After a moment, John's arm relaxed and he allowed Sherlock to do what he wanted.

Sherlock put John to bed and kissed him softly on the lips. "I love you, John Watson. Come back to me. Have sweet dreams and tell me all about them in the morning. I believe in you." Sherlock said this to John every night. Sometimes the corners of John's lips would quirk up slightly. Sherlock lived for John's almost smiles.

Sherlock really did have faith. Watching John sleep kept it strong. At night, John dreamed.

Nothing happened. Sherlock fell into the first truly dysfunctional depression he'd had since bringing John home. He had such hope this time, sure he'd solved the riddle of neurotransmitters and pathophysiology management.

He waited.

Sherlock reviewed his notes and yes if there was any form of being that could hear the electrical impulses of his mind, they would have heard a litany of pathetic begging on John Watson's behalf. Sherlock had little faith in the sort of nonsense the religions claimed, yet he did believe in something indefinably more and panic had somehow added a sort of wishing well mentality in Sherlock's mind palace. It couldn't be called prayer, but it wasn't unlike that activity either.

He fell asleep in his chair.

The meddlers came and went and he knew nothing of their comings and goings. Exhaustion had finally claimed his mind and Sherlock estimated he'd been asleep for at least thirty-six hours when something gently touched his cheek. He opened his eyes to find John standing over him.

Half of John's face pulled into a smile while the other half quivered. He was leaning over Sherlock looking right at him. A stutter of disoriented sounds began to erupt finally settling into a whisper, "Sh…sh. Sh..ahk."

Sherlock sucked in a deep breath and laughed. "John?"

A nod and a befuddled look. "I…see…Sh…Sherahhk"

"Yes. I see you too. I'm here. And…so are you. I knew you were still here. I am always right." Sherlock stood and slowly reached out and encircled John in his arms.

Six weeks went by and John sat in his chair smiling at the guests. His speech was still terribly garbled, but Sherlock interpreted. It kept John from tantrums of frustration that he was still so hard to understand. There was cake, so Mycroft had shown up. For once Sherlock didn't mind.

"Happy birthday, John," Mycroft said kindly as he offered John a package shaped suspiciously like an umbrella. "If you call it a brolly, it is more dignified than a cane. I have a few minor balance issues myself and find my own most useful."

John smiled up at the most dangerous man in London and squeezed his hand in appreciation. Mycroft patted the hand and peeped up at his brother, both letting their guards down for a second of mutual admiration. Mycroft had financed and acquired certain informational materials that had led Sherlock to his success and Sherlock had generously shared his findings. Mycroft was proud of what Sherlock had accomplished.

John opened a gift of slippers from Molly and nodded his thanks. He blew out his candles and Lestrade asked him what he wished for. John's eyes found their target, locking onto Sherlock.

"Already…goddit," John enunciated slowly and carefully. Sherlock didn't have to tell a single person in the room what John had said or what he meant.

"Me too. Obviously," Sherlock said as Mrs. Hudson patted John's back with encouraging little strokes.

Sally Donavan strolled from the kitchen into the sitting-room holding up a jar of chicken brains "Are these brains? They were in the bloody refrigerator. I almost dumped them on the olive tray."

"Oh dear, let me help you. The food shelf is on the top only," Mrs. Hudson said with a distressed tither.

John burst out laughing and garbled something in the direction of the kitchen. Sherlock threw his head back and laughed too. "Sally, John says you might give the microwave a wide berth as well due to the fact that he hasn't been able to clean it in a couple of years."

Sally's head poked back into the room and she shook her head, "Not even going to mention what I found in the Freak's silverware drawer."

Mrs. Hudson's voice echoed from the kitchen, "Sherlock, I don't need surprises like this at my age!"

Sherlock looked confused then something dawned on his face and he turned brilliantly red before scarpering off into the kitchen in a great hurry. "Mrs. Hudson whatever you do, don't look in the—"

Two shrieks were heard followed by Sherlock's frustrated voice through gritted teeth, "They were for an experiment!"

Ten heartbeats of silence were broken by hysterical female laughter. Mycroft smiled as if he were in pain and rolled his eyes.

Sally wheezed, "And…that was where you decided to put them? These don't belong in any kitchen…how do you live here? I mean where do you keep the tea…shoebox under the bed? Nothing is where it belongs… " She was wound up now and seemed to have a list of things that needed announced to everyone's amusement.

Mycroft cleared his throat and attempted polite observation, "Your treatments are going well. I was quite certain his devotion to you was pointless. Feared how this would all turn out. Yet here we are and most importantly…here you are." His eyes danced with amused wonder. "Welcome back."

John ate his cake and grinned at Mycroft. He looked up at the skull on the mantle and sighed with pleasure. The skull smiled back at John and both knew exactly where they belonged.

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**_Thanks for reading, please check out my longer stories{A Statue in the Temple of Mendacity-John/Molly, I Think the Cat is on Fire - Catlock, Wings of the Damned, The Perditions of John } - and don't forget to review!_**


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